Tuesday, January 15, 2019

Tuesday poem #302 : Noah Falck : NOTHING’S LULLABY

It is immersed in the whole blackened wildness of night. A revision swallowed in the cinema of hurt. A sound we know only by stepping through. Like fire scribbling through a cemetery. We run through it as if a season or a cartoon, our nervous systems exposed. In one of the scenes you can see our little orange hearts booming. Tiny flares always about to go out. We stay awake as a way to punish our sketched-out bodies.

Noah Falck is the author of Snowmen Losing Weight (BatCat Press), and EXCLUSIONS (forthcoming from Tupelo Press, 2020). He lives and works in Buffalo, New York. Find him @nofalck

the Tuesday poem is curated by rob mclennan

Tuesday, January 08, 2019

Tuesday poem #301 : Elisha May Rubacha : see

200 acres of space
that I was afraid to explore

between the fishers, coyotes, and cougars
my father warned me about

“if a cougar attacks you,” he’d say
“your only chance

is to pull out its eye”

Elisha May Rubacha lives, writes, and gardens in Peterborough, ON. She was a finalist for Peterborough's Outstanding Emerging Artist Award (2018), and shortlisted for the PRISM International Creative Non-fiction Contest (2016). Her work has been published by Apt. 9 Press, Electric City Magazine, Puddles of Sky Press, Bywords, The Steel Chisel, and Skirt Quarterly, with a publication from Exile forthcoming. She is the editor and designer of bird, buried press.

the Tuesday poem is curated by rob mclennan

Tuesday, January 01, 2019

Tuesday poem #300 : Jane Virginia Rohrer : untitled

always comes back to who
do you really know
                                    in the end, it is
only ideas of the big thing, the city
shrinks whenever you stretch a hand,
although you’ve lived inside, beside it
                                    two hole decades
there isn’t much you have to share—you
are one slim sliver, meaningless,
of the human whole, &
your moms     dissolved into
album folds, school-made heart-shaped cards
before you
         even got to ask the big stuff,
the what was it like to break open, how many
years did it take to disappear,
                        what does it feel like
to be all someone thinks about until they form memories,
and by then they have so much more than you,
was it hard to let that go?      
i wanted
            to learn everything about you,
your softball batting average, when your eyes change,
what was your first drink—
    but there’s so little time, we’re already gone,
we hardly even made it here to begin with,
like the many building-ed view from a train window
                        it’s hard to remember all those lives besides yours
going on, always, together & not

feels good to forgive the good, feels good
to remember the bad, feels good to feel good skin

Jane Virginia Rohrer is a writer and teacher from Southeastern Pennsylvania. She holds an MFA from the University of North Carolina, Wilmington and is currently pursuing a PhD at the University of Pittsburgh where she studies sound, radio, and contemporary poetry and poetics. Her creative work has appeared or is forthcoming in Peach Mag, Metatron, Bone Bouquet, and others. 

the Tuesday poem is curated by rob mclennan